


He Makes It Hard

by Amethyst97Skye



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Circle of Magi, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Love Confessions, Oral Sex, Romance, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 15:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15391959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: It was different in the Circle. She did it for the thrill, to feel alive, just for a moment. Now, every day was a challenge, a death sentence waiting to be written. The assassin eying her across the fire has nothing to with it, but she cannot ignore him forever.





	He Makes It Hard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quingy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quingy/gifts).
  * Inspired by [She makes it easy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563232) by [Quingy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quingy/pseuds/Quingy). 



Elissa was full of questions. Overfull, some would say, but beneath her armour lay a romantic heart, and her helmet hid a scholar’s mind. Solana had already suffered the full brunt of her attack, but her questions were never meant to cause pain. Wynne attracted her like a moth to a flame, and Elissa’s was granted the same patience the Enchanter reserved for her more… exuberant students.

            Life in the Circle proved a hot topic for Zevran. He insisted that there was a Circle in Antiva, but no one seemed to know _where_ it was, least of all the Chantry. Then the Order’s loyalty came under question. Zevran made the Templars sound like jealous husbands guarding their wanton wives. Such… possessiveness was not uncommon. Some genuinely feared and cared for the children. Others pretended to. Most never bothered to disguise their true feelings. If they could have absconded with all the mages to rut in the moonlight… but the Templars were only half the problem.

            Solana was quick to correct him. Too quick, perhaps, but she could not stand listening to him play a fiddle out of tune. Circle Mages did _not_ live leisurely lives. If they did not learn quickly, then they would die slowly, painfully, be it by Smite and sword, or tongue and claw.

            Zevran said he understood. Solana had a feeling that he could… relate. His past with the Antivan Crows was certainly… colourful, and she was not against roleplaying, should they find sufficient inspiration. With fire and ice at her fingertips (soon, she hoped, to be joined by lightning) there was no end to the pleasure she could provide, but Solana did not need magic. He would watch her, enraptured, palming her ass as she imprisoned him between her legs. Old habits died hard, and fast fucks in dark corners necessitated firm holds and firmer hands. It was different in the Circle. She did it for the thrill, to feel _alive_ , just for a moment. Now, every day was a challenge, a death sentence waiting to be written. The assassin eying her across the fire has nothing to with it, but she cannot ignore him forever. Every moment could be her last, every time they stop to set up camp feels like a victory, and Solana prefers to celebrate privately.

            It has become a habit, now, to hang the charms in preparation for his arrival, because here, in the middle of nowhere, Solana can scream, and cry and, laugh without ever courting death. Here, there are people who truly care; people that have protected her life with theirs; people who playfully tease the love affair she has with the blasted elf’s hair; people who spend all day smiling with her if her voice is a little sore, or laughing if she lost it entirely. The charms only dampen sound, after all. Everyone is aware of their… relationship, and even Wynne has granted them her blessing.

            Solana shifts in place, finding it far too hot beside the fire. Relationships are _not_ for Mages. It is as she raises her head, wondering if anyone will care if she retires early – only to remember that she need _not fear_ such observations anymore – that he catches her eye. They reflect the flames of her desire so perfectly that, beyond a brusque “good night” to Elissa (who probably responded with her usual “good afternoon”) Solana says nothing. She had barely ducked inside her tent when Zevran was upon her. Firm hands seized her waist, pulling her back against his chest, against his pulsing erection.

            Even after the flap fell shut, blocking out the midday sun, Solana cannot help but think. It is _never_ this easy. There _will_ be consequences. She knows this, learned it young, but Zevran’s hands are quick to unbutton the skirt of her robes, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against her neck. They circled around to her throat as his fingers slithered down quickly, impatiently, slipping beneath her panties to tease the folds of her vagina.

            She moans and groans, wraps one arm around the back of his neck, pulling on his hair, egging him on, unravelling fast – too fast. He knows her too well, but by the Maker, she feels _safe_ in his arms. She _trusts_ the lips and teeth and tongue kissing, licking and nibbling at her ear. Solana emits his names as a breathless plea, her heart racing as his thumb grinds against her clitoris, and his fingers begin to explore the depths of her sex.

            “Tell me your wish, my Warden,” he whispers.

            Solana shivered, her body shaking and fingers flailing as she slicked her digits with grease. She cannot explain the concoction, an odd combination of cold cream and hot gel. A friend recommended it.

            Zevran bucks against her, growls in her ear, his fingers spreading her, toying with her masterfully. She tells him, but her gasps choke back the command and force her to think. The words are released in a breathless rush.

            “I want you inside of me!”

            His chuckle is dark and dangerous, desire incarnate. Suddenly, his fingers are gone, his hands back on her hips. Solana spins into him, seizes his shoulders and pulls the assassin down onto her bedroll. His eyes never lose sight of her as he strips, watching as Solana tears away piece after piece of clothing. For a moment, they are silent, motionless, drinking in the sight of one another. Solana does not know what he sees, and she yearns to ask, but she settles instead for committing his face to memory. The scars are few and far between, but every day, he earns more.

            When he stares for a moment too long, his black eyes ringed with gold, Solana says, “Zev, stop teasing me.” She aimed for coy but sounded no less breathless than before.

            There was no warning, and everyone in camp must have heard her cry, but Solana’s focus lay on locking her legs around his hips, positioning herself to pull him back after his slow exit. His return is forcefully swift, but the echo of pain is hammered with pleasure. Zevran silences her, their hips bucking as his lips tease the flushed flesh covering her face. Solana’s arms circle him, hands fisting in his hair, her every gasp punctured by the sweat-slick sounds of flesh slapping flesh. He thrust harder and harder, his lips demanding more and more, his fingers teasing her clitoris just so.

            So _close_. She was _so_ close, so ecstatic Solana had no idea where she ended or where he began. She just clung on for the ride, edging closer and closer to the edge until –

            The wave broke, her body tripping up at the last hurdle. Before she could think to guess what had happened, Zevran had her arms pinned down by her side and his mouth over her vagina. Solana dragged his name up and out of her throat, begging for more without words. His pace remained slow and methodical, tasting her deeply, exploring her thoroughly. When she bucked her hips, Zevran released her arms to better pin her body down. Only on the edge of incoherence did Zevran withdraw and rise once more, his body covering hers, pressing the head of his penis against her engorged folds before thrusting inside. Three sharp snaps of his hips and Solana crashed down with her wave, locked in an intimate embrace with her lover at the bottom of the cliffs.

            Lover.

            The word sounded foreign to her. Mages did _not_ have lovers. They could not afford to form such sentimental attachments. Jowan was not the first, and he certainly would not be the last. Yet, despite the overwhelming odds, here she was… making love to an Antivan assassin, sharing blissful kisses after the best sex she had the fortune of experiencing in her short, stifled life.

            Foreign as it felt, strange as it sounded, the words that fell from her lips came naturally, instinctively, desperately. They came with the knowledge that, much as she might not _want_ him to hear... she might not get another chance.

            “I love you, Zev,” she whispered, fingers trailing through his hair, stroking it aside to tuck behind his sensitive ears.

            He replied with a kiss, with kisses that relayed all the words he left unsaid. He kissed her, kept kissing her until the taste of her own sex resurfaced. It distracted her from the dance, from _their_ dance, the dance Zevran initiated all those months ago. Solana shifted her hips, welcoming him home, taunting him with passion and flare revived by the Blight. Perhaps there was method in the Maker’s madness after all.

            “Show me what you’ve got.”

            There is that chuckle she knows so well, voice laced with hunger, desire, and affection freely given since the beginning.

            “I’m here, all night, at your pleasure.”

            His words, his _vows_ , are sealed with an energetic thrust, and Solana cannot help but smile as she bites back a shout. Distantly, she wonders how long they have left, how long until they are reading from the same page, singing the same song. As the day passes away and the shadows lengthen, Solana’s concerns expire with the light. All her worries, her fears, the tension that strain her muscles – everything fades under his touch, disappearing as if it never existed. Everything but the _belief_ that he cares, that he will _always_ care, regardless of the words they share. It will be hard to wait – _he_ will make it hard – but it will be worth it. _He_ will be worth it.

            When Desire lifts the tent flap and Terror claws at its thin walls, Elissa is there, ready to defend her… and so is Zevran. He is not in the Fade - not physically - but he whispers to her, words with such intent that Terror freezes, afraid, and Desire burns in flames as red as its name. She cannot hear him, not so far away, but the Darkspawn are quiet tonight, and his voice is so strong, so soothing, so sincere that she smiles. Solana hopes he knows that the feeling is mutual.

**Author's Note:**

> A quick disclaimer: this one-shot is based on the work Quingy posted, presenting my take on Solana's perspective in response to Zevran's point of view.


End file.
